Dread and Contempt in Las Grimas
by Sophisticated Sableye
Summary: Ignoring the high probability of regret is essential on a trip such as this. Las Grimas, one of Ylisse's most luxurious gambling resort cities located in the heart of the Plegian desert, was our destination. And we weren't going to Las Grimas just for slot machines and cheap one-night stands; we were on a mission. Based on Hunter S. Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
1. Chapter 1

**I feel the need to add an introduction to this story, to inform those of you that may be confused on what this is. In short, this is a rewrite or parody (however you see it) of Hunter S.** **Thompson's _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas_. It won't be a pure rewrite. The story will borrow heavily from Hunter's writing style and the book's setting, but I have different tales to tell from the original.**

 **To be honest I'm doubtful if there are many people on here who are familiar with the inspiration for this savage tale, but never the less I hope you enjoy. Those who like Hunter Thompson will hopefully get a good laugh, and those who aren't might enjoy the style and become future Hunter fans.**

 **"Alright, let's get right to the heart of this thing."**

* * *

We were somewhere around the border of Ylisse, at the edge of the mountains, when the drugs began to take hold. I remember someone saying something like "I'm not feeling so hot. Maybe you should drive." Then I saw these grotesque purple zombies with axes running and swinging at the car, a black 1998 Griffin convertible. Again the voice spoke. "Get away from me you reanimated bastards! Back to whatever evil laboratory you came from!" The voice had scared them away. I looked over to my manager, Dr. Henry, for conformation of the lunacy I had just witness, but he remained oblivious. He had just poured the contents of a half-empty beer can over his head to cool off.

"Did you say something?" asked Henry, pulling his sunglasses down slightly. I pondered for a moment why he even used those damn things. He is always squinting to begin with.

"Never mind that," I answered as I pulled over to the side of the road. I paused for a moment to clear my thoughts. "Alright man, your turn to drive." I stepped out on to the hot gravel road and walked around the Griffin to the trunk to check on the stash. When I opened it, immediately the pungent aroma of marijuana and other cannabis-type herbs hit my nose. But it was more than just that. The entire back-compartment of the Griffin was a hideous collection of mind-manipulating drugs and strong liquor. We had gathered all of this the night prior. It was far larger than any average two men could consume in the span of a weekend, but we never intended to. The collection was part of the fun of the trip. Like at a buffet where your eye is tantalized by all the morsels it sees. You fill your plate to the point of shattering, ignoring the fact you probably won't be able to eat more than half of it. Just grab all you want and enjoy yourself. Let the eye consume, and save the regret for later.

Indeed. Ignoring the high probability of regret is essential on a trip such as this. Las Grimas, one of Ylisse's most luxurious gambling resort cities located in the heart of the Plegian desert, was our destination. The town was a gathering spot for powerful big-spenders and high-rollers. Like in all other cities, the wealthy dominated; only in Las Grimas they went out of their way to show it off. As such, any reasonably minded drug-addicts with the ability of forethought would had pulled a sharp U-turn by now. However, me and my companion were no such druggies.

Besides, we weren't going to Las Grimas just for slot machines and cheap one-night stands; we were on a mission. The annual Thunder Auto convention show had already begun. We had to check into The Thoron, site of the event, before three 'o clock that afternoon. Press registration would end by then, and if we didn't make it we might end up having to pay for the room ourselves. _The Ylissean Times_ wanted a full three column article summary of the event, and there was no way I could do so without knowing my accommodations were met.

From the trunk I grabbed a six pack of beer, some pills of mescaline, and a few sheets of acid; just enough to hold us over until we got to town. With the stuff in hand I made my way to the passenger seat. As I acclimated myself I noticed Henry was glaring at me with that eternal smile. His impatient finger tapping on the steering wheel showed how eager he was to lash back out on the road at top speed. "You comfy?" he asked with a sarcastic chuckle.

"Right as rain man," I said as I opened a beer and drank hearty. "Let's get rolling."

Now at the helm, Henry made his adjustments; pull back the seat position, fuck with the mirrors, and of course change the radio. With a flick of the dial the radio now blasted poppy electric garbage. It was an unspoken rule between us that whoever was driving had full control of the music, and Henry always had on either Top 40 stations or club beats, a sharp contrast from my preference of jazz. Henry liked to dance to it, he would explain, which proved tricky given what he was doing. He would bop his head and tap his hand against the dashboard, and every now and then he would let go of the wheel entirely to play the air guitar or some other flashy hand gesture. As a result the car moved more in waves than a straight line. It made my gut feel like a punching bag owned by a heavy-weight Ferxo boxer that was coming apart at the seams. It's one thing to drive with the speed of an angry woman on her way to claim vengeance on an unfaithful husband, but to sway erratically while doing so had a nasty effect on the digestion system.

Henry's strong resistance to hallucinogens was beginning to break at this point. He was giggling more often. It hurt my mind to imagine what would erupt if I didn't take the wheel again, but I was already too far gone myself. The zombies kept coming. I had also been driving all morning. I was exhausted. If I drove now I'm sure I would either collapse and crash or run off-road in an attempt to kill as many violet vampires as I could. Both of those futures were unpleasant, and leaving an acid-frenzied Henry in-charged was no more favorable to me. However, it would buy me more time before the inevitable disaster. And once that point comes, I could always jump out of the speeding vehicle and pray the sand is extra soft.

"Nyahaha! Y-you okay there dude? Haha. You look worried."

"I'm fine. Eyes on the road you buffoon! Keep the damn thing steady. Just let me rest for twenty minutes and I'll take over."

In my drained and dazed state, I didn't noticed the goofy looking hitchhiker until he was about seven feet away. He was a young fellow, with a light brown tan and curly locks covered in desert dust. Everything about him seemed fairly normal, except I could have sworn he was wearing a kitchen pot over his head. I shook it off as just another strange visual concoction from my deteriorating mind. Or maybe it was a new fashion trend here in Plegia to wear cooking equipment? If so we'll have to ransack a dinner before reaching Las Grimas, or we will have no hope of blending in.

We came to a sudden halt in the middle of the road as I was contemplated this insane thought. I broke the crash into the dashboard with my hands, and could taste the bitter stomach acid that had come up from the impact.

"What the hell are you doing you air-headed bastard," I scolded. "These zombies are sure to catch us if we don't get moving!"

"Hold on a second. Let's help this guy out," said Henry. He fiddled with the rearview mirror and prepared to go in reverse.

"The poor bastard's a goner! Zombie chow! Step on the gas before it's too late!"

Obligingly, Henry went into a speedy backwards drive that knocked me off balance. Again more vomit arose. I was almost past my limit. The distance between us now closed, the hitchhiker skipped up to the Griffin.

"Well hot dog! I ain't never seen none of them fancy convertibles before."

"Is that so?" I said. My voice bordered on hostile. "Well then it's your lucky day ain't it?"

The hitchhiker's smile weakened. I could see his thought process now. He was thinking over the wisdom in jumping into this car.

"Aw don't mind him bud," Henry pipped up. "There's no need to worry with us. See? We're young hooligans just like you. So you know you won't be killed or sodomized!"

I turned quickly to face Henry. "Quit it with that type of talk or I'll skin you with a lime soaked knife!" My threat had no effect. Henry laughed off the the promise of violence, as I expected him to.

I turned back to the literal pot head. "Well get in. Or do you want to be eaten alive!?" The hitchhiker entered the backseat with notably less enthusiasm with which he originally approached us.

Before the hiker could get properly buckled in, Henry returned to the road with an intense burst of gas and a screech. This cause more visible concern in our new friend, and even more disruption in my stomach. "Don't worry about a thing man," I reassured. "My companion is an expert driver. A spotless record."

He laughed and nodded at this. Satisfied with this response, I turned back to my seat to eat a weed brownie I just remembered was in the glove compartment, but from the corner of my eye I could see he returned to a worried expression. Poor nervous geek I thought. Maybe I should split the brownie with him so he calms down? Comfortable with my reasoning, I torn the sweet in two, but as I went to offer it to the backseat, Henry snatched it from my grasp.

"Thanks dude. I was starting to come down a bit. Nya ha!"

A large sigh escaped me. Just as well, I figured. Straight grass would probably be too strong for the youngster. I should just feed him some reds instead. Or maybe downers would sit better with him? But I only brought up the mescaline. The rest is all in the back, and I didn't feel like stopping any longer.

Several minutes had passed now, and it was becoming harder to ignore the thick silence. It brought about a familiar uncomfortableness, like being locked in a conversation with a distant relative who just called you by your sibling's name for the third time. I have grown immune to awkwardness such as this though. I was perfectly content to just smoke my cigarettes and daydream figures out of the rocky terrain. Apparently neither Henry nor the kid agree with this sentiment.

"Uh, it sure was nice'a y'all to've stopped'n helped me out back there," offered the hitchhiker. He sounded hopelessly shaken, but retained a general friendliness in his tone.

"Of course! We're always happy to help out poor folks in need. Nya ha ha!" laughed Henry. The finishing cackle in the sentence was wildly inappropriate. The sincerity of Henry's comment now sounded like the sarcasm of a B-movie horror villain; just one of his many trouble-magnet habits.

While I've long since become nicely adjusted to Henry's bizarre quirks, they were completely alien to the hitchhiker. He was a foreigner to this strange world he had inadvertently made contact with in entering our shiny black 1998 Griffin convertible. How long would he be able to tolerate this loathsome company? Or would he just accept our extraordinary behavior, like Henry's sporadic giggles or the fact that every few minutes now I would swing a punch out of the right side of the car to keep shadow beings from getting too close? We were entering the Plegian desert, the infamous hideout of a crazed cult of freaks who sacrificed horses and virgins to some reptilian deity the likes of Cthulhu. How long until he connected those dots and confused us for deranged sun-mad cultists? And what would he do once he did? He would probably slit Henry's throat with a toenail clipper and tackle me out of the Griffin before I could stab him in the pancreas.

I contemplated this grizzly scenario heavily, and I knew it to be prophecy if I did not intervene the conversation. I would have to chat with this boy. Remind him, or rather trick him into thinking, that we were normal individuals that he should not fear. I was reluctant to do so however. I desperately wanted to rest. Yet this want was in pure vain, for I knew I would not obtain it. Not in this car, under these circumstances. No rest for the wicked.

I thought for a moment on what to talk about with this boy. He looked far too young and rural to give half of a rat's ass about politics, and sport talk would open the door for Henry to speak of further gruesomeness. How about dames? I myself am well-versed on the subject of seduction, and could talk for hours on the woe of women. The kid didn't look like much of a swinger, but I'm sure he's sneaked his way into some girl's two-sizes-too-tight pants after getting dumped by an Ex for a chick with golden nipple rings.

I shook that last thought off quickly. Too inappropriate. Better keep it PG. Ah, I know. I'll just give him the background of our Las Grimas campaign. Give him the hard facts. No need to bullshit him. Plus if he knows our story, he is less likely to think us Lizard worshippers.

"So listen," I spoke to the hitchhiker. "You're probably curious as to why two pale gentlemen like us are off to the middle of the desert. We're not just going to Las Grimas to burn our life savings. No sir, our trip has a hidden, deeper meaning than that."

I paused to drink the last drops of my lukewarm beer. Now empty, I crushed the can and threw it onto the landscape. Fuck the environmentalists! I then grabbed a new beer out of the cooler, opened it, and proceed speaking.

"You see-" I stopped briefly to consider my beer. "Shit where are my manners? I never offered you a drink! Go ahead man, grab a beer."

The kid shook his head politely. "Oh that's mighty kind of ya, but I'm fine."

"You sure? It's good beer. None of that cheap piss-water you kids drink at our high school orgies."

Again he refused.

"Aw well, I tried. Anyway where was I? Oh yeah! The mission. Let's start from the beginning. Less than twenty-four hours ago me and my manager were lounging at a quaint restaurant back in Ylisse, drinking heavily and eating lightly. Around half way into my second screwdriver I got a call on my cellphone. I knew who was calling, but I let it ring. Never pick up on the first few rings son. Makes you look desperate. Makes the women think you're a dirty dog of a gigolo. Do you follow me so far?"

The hitchhiker stared at me with wide eyes and undilated pupils. His mouth was also opened slightly, as if he meant to say something, but could not fathom the words.

"I want you to understand that this man at the wheel is my manager. A trusted friend and ally, although he isn't good for much other than harassing squares. Shit I'm sure you've noticed by now. He doesn't act like a normal person does he? That because he's an orphan. From Plegia. Actually we are both Plegian orphans, but I turned out pretty ok wouldn't you say?"

I looked over to Henry, hoping my words had resonated with him on some level. It would help my credibility if he gave some sort of conformation. But no, he was completely out of his head, rocking out to the radio at a deafening volume. Although listening to the music and lyrics I wouldn't have minded going deaf.

I reached over and turned down that blasted radio. The second the noise went below 119 decibels, Henry had a freak-out. He lashed at the radio dials, and the car shook violently. "Sweet God you twisted animal!" I shouted in illness, and promptly stuck my head out from the side of the car, preparing to vomit. No, false alarm. Not toying me you bastard stomach acid! Just come out already and get it over with.

I got the car and it's bastard driver under control.

"Who touched the radio!? Who did it!? Huh!? Was it you you filthy punk!?" Henry glared at the kid, who was absolutely petrified.

"No-one! No-one touched it man. I swear," I said. I felt the strong desire to slap him with the back of my hand. "It was probably just interference. It happens sometimes out here in the desert. Now calm the fuck down!"

Henry when back to his duties in a phuff. He was twitching badly now. I myself had grown so frustrated with that ordeal that I gave up on easing the hitchhiker. My only hope now if he did try to kill us was that he was so frightened, he would hesitate in fear. That should give me just enough time to stab his pancreas. Still, I'll cross that bridge when the time comes. For now I was going to close my eyes and shun this terrible situation of a road trip.

But I couldn't. Something was bothering me. Leaving the tale of this trip's beginning unfinished was giving me a nasty case of storyteller's blueballs. As time went on I began to question if yesterday even happened. Was I out here driving though the desert for the reason I thought I was? I thought about turning back around and continuing to spin the yarn to the hitchhiker, but quickly choice against it. No point in agitating this poor bastard any further. So I decided it best to recap yesterday's events to myself, in detail, for my own sanity.

Now, let's start from the top.

* * *

 **A good place to stop for now. I'm eager to hear your thoughts on this, so reviews are greatly appreciated. Until next time.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Beginning of the Pilgrimage... An Ugly & Sudden Call to Action **

In regards to this Plegia bound misadventure, the story begins where I left it, at a restaurant/bar called _Low Frequency_ , a jazz club in Ylisstol. It was around a quarter past three. Henry and I were sitting at a corner booth table, eating chicken club sandwiches and sniffing small bits of cocaine while the waitresses weren't looking. I was passively reading _The Royal Press_ newspaper, and no article was particularly eye-catching. The only news of interest was a series of robberies targeting confectionery stores and bakeries that have been going on for several weeks. The thief not only cleaned out the cash registers, but also swiped bagfuls of merchandise. Police have no leads yet, and have put out a search for men under thirty with diabetes and/or a history of high blood sugar.

Henry snickered as I read him the article. "Talk about a sticky situation!" he joked. "What kind of weirdo goes around robbing candy shops?" His voice was muffled from a mouthful of half chewed bread. He liked to take huge bites of his subs and then drink to soften the food in his mouth. Once it was soft enough he would consume with an audible gulp. I have already had to perform the Heimlich on him several times.

"Maybe there is some underlined kindness in the act. He doesn't have the inhumanity to steal candy from babies, so he steals from the stores. Cuts out the middlemen."

We both laughed, enjoying the conversation. Sure the news was nothing but boring fluff, but that was a good sign compared to the savage headlines that plagued the papers two years ago. Back when Ylisse had been plunged into a pointless bloodbath of a war with Plegia for what seems like forever. It was all thanks to the bigoted, violent-hungry leadership of Ylisses's former commander and chief, whose name I've spent the last couple years forgetting with late drunk nights and horrible drug abuse. The memories of that brutal epoch weighed heavy on my mind: Plegian towns turned to battlefields, Ylissean protesters branded as traitors and beaten or gassed. However, now it was just another distant era. Another example of the beastly side of humanity's duality. A new twenty-six page long do-do stain in the history books ten years from now.

Peace has returned since those evil times, more or less. However it is still not completely behind us yet. Both countries still taste the bitter consequences from the battles; especially Plegia, who wound up with the piss end of the shit stick. Rumor has it that some Plegian citizens, even politicians, secretly hope to reignite the war. Open those freshly sealed scars and finish what was started by a dead man. For some men, vengeances is as good as gold.

Suddenly a sharp sound broke my concentration. An out-of-place tune rings in contrast with the jazz. It was my cell phone, playing a high pitched melody and vibrating against the wooden table, adding a low, dull hum to the orchestra. It was my editor at The Ylissean Times, probably with another assignment. I let it ring for about twelve seconds before picking it up.

"Hello?" I greeted into the phone. An anxious voice replied back, mumbling out some demands and instructions. I wrote the rough details in my little notebook, offering many "Mmhmm"s and "I see"s to the man as I did. There was a sense of worried urgency in his tone, which worsened when I told him where I was. Apparently I wasn't suppose to be there. Finally, once I gathered the order, I blew the man a kiss and hung up abruptly.

"Who was that?" Henry asked, reaching over to steal my fries. I smacked his hand away with a rolled up portion of my newspaper.

"My man up at _Ylissean Times_ headquarters. They want me up in Las Grimas and checked into _The Thoron_ hotel by tomorrow afternoon. A photographer named Stahl will seek me out and give me the specifics on the story."

"Tomorrow afternoon? Nya ha ha! Talk about rush hour! We better get moving now, or we'll have to break the sound barrier to make it there on time."

"I know. Apparently I should have been there by now, sleeping drunk by the pool and prepping for the job. The man on the phone said my manager was suppose to of informed me of this assignment two days ago."

Henry stared at me with a clueless expression, ignoring my narrowing glare. Finally his face lit up, and laughed. "Oh yeaaaah. Nya ha ha! It's all coming back to me now."

I rolled my eyes, out of annoyance or habit I no longer know.

"Hey don't look at me like that! It's hardly my fault. Those eggheads should know better than to drop responsibilities on me on a Friday night. I'm usually drunk and twisted by sundown."

"And what's this 'we' stuff you're babbling about? How are you so sure I'm bringing your demented ass? You think I forgot what happened three weeks ago during Governor's public briefing? The shit you pulled that awful afternoon!? Of all the poor skirts to sexually harass you chose the Police Chief's wife."

"You didn't see the looks she was giving me dude! She couldn't keep her eyes off."

"Because you walked into the joint shirtless and muttering like a schizophrenic. We're lucky I got you out of there without so much as fractured femur. That cop was ready to stomp you until your bones leaked marrow."

"Aw come off it. You love having me around. Besides, are you gonna manage yourself up there in Las Grimas? Hell no!"

I shook my head as I called our waitress for the bill. No point in debating with Henry. The bastard loves road trips, and in truth I fully intended on bringing him from the start. Even if I didn't though, there was no time to argue or even think about it. My most pressing problem now was getting to Las Grimas, checking into my suit, and signing in for the press passes before the clock ran out.

As a journalist you have to deal with all sorts of stressful deadlines. I have only missed a handful of them in my career; each one badly nerve-wrenching, each one an all-nighter. Though Father Time was against us, I had a good feeling we could make this one, but only if we hightailed it. The drive from Ylisstol to Las Grimas was going to be long enough, but we had a list of errands to complete before that.

"So what's this story about again?" Henry inquired as we walked out to the bus stop.

"The 18th annual Thunder Auto convention. It's the largest gathering of gun and car enthusiasts this side of the continent."

"Well obviously we should gather some automatics. Something classic, like an old fashion tommygun. Also a nice vintage convertible."

Now walking into the bus, I considered Henry's thought process, and agreed completely with his thinking. "You're right. We'll have to immerse ourselves in the culture to properly report this story. You wouldn't send an ice skater to cover a football game would you? No, we can't afforded to be out of our element."

Indeed. But given our immediate financial situation, we could not afforded the resources to be in our element either. At hand I had only about 60 bucks with me, and Henry keeps all his wealth at home like a miser from a Charles Dickens novel.

So, the first task at hand was to hit the bank and drum up some cash from the _Ylissean Times_ ' coffers to support our campaign. Have Henry forewarn the bastards, reassuring the accountants that it was purely a business expense. He did this on our way over, and from what I overheard, the process when smoothly.

"We're gonna need some serious cash for this trip bud," Henry spoke into his cell phone, talking to some poor sobe at HQ with a plea for financial support. "There are certain expenses that have to be made for this to happen."

I could hear a muffled voice screaming back at him. Some nonsense about mother ducks and dirty dishes.

"But I never got that message last Friday. Someone there must of messed up. Too bad huh? If you people were more on top of things we wouldn't be in this situation."

* * *

The bus ride was unpleasant, like all bus rides in the summer; humid and clammy. For most of it I just retreated into the labyrinth in my head, contemplating the plan. And then, realization hit me. Today was a Friday, and it was past noon. The bank would surely be crowded today, like the DMV office after a holiday.

I cursed under my breathe several time, waking Henry from deep daydream.

"Take it easy man. It'll pass just play it cool."

"It's not that you bastard!" I shouted. This turned heads and attracted eyes, and I gave each one a quick passing glare. "Listen, we're going to need to be a bit more time effect here. I'll get off here in the bank, and you run the rest of the errands."

"What is it you need doing?"

"Let's start with the essentials. First off, make some calls about finding a nice convertible. Nothing too old fashioned, but refined and tasteful. Something to show those high-rollers and hotel clerks we're nothing to be trifled with. I'm thinking a black 1998 Griffin convertible."

"Nice. I'll see what I can do. What then?"

"Go to our homes and pack. You know where my spare key is right?" Henry nodded, and I resumed before he could lapse in reality and revealed the information out loud, on public transportation. "Go to the garage and find my set of white hard plastic suitcases. Load one of the fuckers with shorts, multicolored V-shirts, and undies. The other one we use to keep the drugs."

"Speaking of, what did you have in mind? Anything specific?"

"The usual."

"Smorgasbord, got it."

"Good. Once you have all that meet me back here." The bus approached the stop in front of the bank, and I got up to take my leave. "Oh yeah, and open a fresh bag of Meow Mix for Milo and leave it laying on the kitchen table. Don't fuck this up you hear? Or I'll turn you in for that public nudity incident."

"Oh please, have a little fate in a friend huh?"

Off the bus, I quickened my step as I made my tired way to the bank. Looking into the large reflexive mirrors that made up the walls, I caught a glaze at myself for the first time that day. I looked like complete shit. A walking and shining example of the new generation of grotesques. The night before I was at a wild fiesta, and haven't been home yet to repair myself. Pale and dirty skin, with two grey bags and black holes for eyes. Moist pools nestled in my under arms, a welcomed contrast to the other unidentifiable stains on my shirt. I could only imagined what I smelt like.

Outside or on the bus, I could pass as just another loon ignored by the system, but this look would definitely not fly at any established place of business, let alone at the bank.. Depending on their mood and whatever bizarre shit they might have already dealt with today, the guards might wrestle me to the ground and toss me out the door as fast as it would take them to look at me. Well appearances be damned! I had no choice.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Red-Haired Beauty at the Bank… "I Am the Dragon!"**

The grand wood carved door of the Ylissean National Bank creaked in warning as I pushed it inwards. Once the opening was large enough I popped my head through, the signature entrance style of someone who knows they are entering "unfriendly territory", and glanced around like a guilty man. The only guard I could see was to my immediate right: a chubby bushy-mustachioed man with threateningly broad forearms. I could tell from the seemingly instant glare that he noticed me faster than I did him, and I made the hamster wheel in his mind spin. His thoughts were clear to me now. _Tackle him down now to be safe, or maybe wait for this dirty drifter to give me a reason?_

He probably might of chosen the former if he had read deeper into the face of absolute horror and disgust that I made upon seeing the size of the line. A hideous rectangle comprised of human heads, spanning about six yards in width and maybe twenty or twenty-five in length. "Sweet weeping Jesus," I remember wimbering.

So much for any divine intervention here, and no point bitching to the ungrateful Gods now. There was only one thing to do. In life you either beat the swine, or degrade yourself and conform to their ways. This is one of those situations where you have no choice but to join, because to beat the swine here means confounding them all and hopping to the front, which is out of the question. Bank folks can be particularly vicious and vocal with those foolish enough to violate the strictly held "No Cuties" policy. Not to mention I wouldn't dare insight the scorn of that wicked guard, who couldn't go five minutes without checking if I had whipped out a .32 Long Colt from out my shorts.

Oh these vile vermin! Your social conventions will be the end of civilization, but I'll play your game for now. So I joined them, and got myself on line. There I drifted for perhaps an hour or more, trying to entertain myself with keen observations of the environment. For instance I found that the blonde woman two people in front of me and the brunette that I saw whenever I turned a corner of the line had tremendous asses. I pondered for a while over which one I would choose for matrimony.

Later, I was awoken from my lustful musings by a familiar melody. It came from behind me. A child, about eight-years old, idling his mind with a Nintendo handheld. I smiled, remembering my fond memories as a gamer kid. I still keep tabs on the industry today, but I've more or less given up the fanatic obsession. I quit on the industry long ago, when I discovered it was run by greedy whores and corporate hustlers. I'll never go back. Not after what they did to the _Paper Marth_ series.

It was at the end of this line of thought, or maybe one of many others, that I found myself finally waltzing up to the stainless glass domain of the bank teller, and I felt nervous. I wasn't exactly in my right mind at the time, and I had the feeling that if this teller picked up any oddness in my demeanor she might call over the guards to fuck with me, despite my credentials. And just like that I'll be tossed out the door. No money, no drugs, no convertible.

"Salutations," greeted the woman, "and welcome to the Ylissean National Bank. How may I be of assistance?"

"Howdy there… uh….." I was trying to read her name tag, but the lettering was too dark, and I didn't think to remove my sunglasses.

"Miriel."

"Ah beautiful name," I replied. I raised my eyes off her name tag to meet her's, and quickly felt a sense of intimidation. There was something authoritarian about them, but also soft and with hints of curiosity, and hair like fine red wine. She looked like she had all the manner and attitude of a hardass grade school teacher who won the school boys' attention not only through fear, but also through a romantic attachment that their blossoming minds could not yet understand.

"So listen, the name's Rob N. Duke. I'm an employee over at _The Ylissean Times_. I'm on my way to Plegia for an assignment and I've been given the green light to pull some funds from the company's expense account for the trip. Account number is ****************."

The woman seem to take no consideration to my words as she typed in the numbers. I took a quick glance over my shoulder. No sign of the guards.

"Hmm, indeed. Could you present a valid form of identification?"

I showed her both my driver's license and employee ID. The spare magnum I always keep nearly fell out, but she hardly noticed.

"Very good. _Ylissean Times_ has confirmed the approval of this withdrawal an hour and twenty-four minutes ago. $550 dollars was the agreed amount of financial support. I imagine this is acceptable?"

"What?" I nearly screamed, which rose her eyebrow, but the rest of her still stone.

I adjusted myself. "My manager told me we'd be getting a little bit more than that. This is going to be a long trip you see, and I'd hate to waste time at another bank to pick up more."

"Regretfully that is not the case, although I would highly recommend in this situation the usage of a credit or debit card, so that funds can efficiently be transferred with ease, thus removing the bothersome mundanity of business in congested banks. To be frank I am mildly flummoxed that this method was not implemented here."

Her words damaged my concentration, not only in their complexity but in their implication. I knew the reason for all this was because cash is preferable when dealing with dealers, but would she draw the same conclusion? "You're telling me! It's an unholy sacrilege to be wasting a beautiful day on a task like this. But you see I just got hired recently by _Ylissean Times_. This is my first assignment as a matter of fact, and I still don't have my employee credit card. So cash will have to do for now. You follow that?"

It was difficult to tell if I was able to end any growing suspension. She remained as stone-faced as ever as she excused herself and walked out to a hall at the edge of the room. _Fucking hell. The alarm should be going off any second now._

Relief showered over me in cool love when she returned with a small envelop. I saw she wrote "$550 c/o Rob N. Duke" on it as she slipped it to me through the slit.

"There you are sir. I wish your odyssey sheltered and unmolested by tribulation."

* * *

I was on my phone as I marched confidently out of the bank, ringing up that bastard Henry.

"What up hon? You done?"

"Yeah, I'm finally out of that pigs' den; with only $550 to show for it might I add. You got us low balled! I should have you fired and dropped off at the Unemployment Office."

"Would you quit ya barking? I didn't low ball anything. That $550 was agreed on with the exception that they pick up the bill for the rent of the Griffin, which I'm cruising in right now thank you very much. Anyway I finished up packing so I'm headed to your place."

"Is that so? Alright, not bad. Anyway, you might as well come pick me up."

"Swing'n. Be there in five."

After stopping by a nearby corner store for a pack of cigarettes and an energy drink, I spotted Henry standing in front of the bank, leaning up against the Black Griffin. I remember sighing from sexual adrenaline upon sighting the machine. Slick bonnet that bends smoothly downwards to meet the bumper, rims that shined like polished titanium, and a pitch-black reflective coat that, when light bounced off it's sheen, was comparable to the corners of an eclipse. Fast and flashy; perfect for Las Grimas.

"Absolutely beautiful. I knew I chose the right machine for the job. Now get in the passenger seat. I'm driving."

From there it smooth sailing. Henry had already packed his luggage in the back, so we went to my house so I could do the same. Clothing, and a few essentials: two bottles of Rosannean Rum, my treasured copy of _The Great Gordin_ , quite a few tape recorders, passport, and my laptop. Henry toiled to open a can of cat food with a head fucked on LSD while I prepare.

Then, the drugs. We zipped all over town and beyond to get to the hot spots for dope fiends and cool cats: grass from Henry's honor student nephew (family discount for quality hash), hallucinogenic chemicals from friends that work at underground basement shows, a bag of Psilocybin mushrooms two old married hippies near the woods, and a small amount of cocaine from some evil business-type pimps in the high-end parts of the city.

"Looks like we just about got everything," Henry hummed as we drove at a steady pace through on of the main avenues of Ylisstol. "Really thought we'd have to sacrifice the coke. You've got one of the least charitable employers out of any of my clients you know that? Nya ha ha ha!"

"There was never any worry about making the nut. If the $550 did run out, we could always swing by your place and grab some clean bills from under that mattress."

All laughter stopped, and Henry's smile turned sinister. "Don't even joke about that you vulture. I am the dragon." He stood up and screamed at traffic, "I am the dragon! Come near my horde and I'll turn you to flames and ashes! Nya ha ha ha ha ha!"

I quickly grabbed him by the wrist and sat him back down. "Stop making a scene you evil bastard! And make no mistake, _I_ am the dragon. The sleeping vengeful kind, so don't bother me or I'll launch a blitzkrieg on you."

"Hehehehe. Alright enough sweet talk'n and back to business. How much dough do we have left?"

"Bout $25. $85 counting my own cash. We could stop by some place for a long and well deserved dinner."

Henry agreed. I drove to the city limits and found a quaint diner. I figured this was the perfect location to start The Hero's Journey, and with decently priced coffee too. I had a steak sandwich with no pickles and slices of pineapple, and Henry ordered the avocado burger with a cherry soda.

Once we had our fill of bread and beef and caffeine, I parked the Griffin in a hidden place near the entrance of Route 13, the main road connecting Ylisstol to the county of Plegia. There, with the top up of course, we slept in the Griffin until early morning. Once my alarm woke us, I was at the wheel immediately, lashing with great speed onto the road. Next stop: Las Grimas.


End file.
